Excerpt from Every Rising Sun by Jamila Ahmed, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

One

There are words and then there are words. Words that can bind hearts, break a marriage, rupture an empire. Words that burn in your mouth like black peppercorn, that crack the soul like bone, that linger in the air until the Day of Reckoning's trumpets shred mountains to cotton and break the earth like an egg. Words created the dizzying spiral of our worlds—The Creator of Heavens and Earth … He but says "Be" and it Is—and so too, will they destroy it.

But for now, I call out my sister's name and hope it draws my quarry nearer. "Dunyazade!" My slippers skid across the time-polished floor of Bam's citadel. "Dunya!"

As my call fades around a corner, I hear a protesting voice. "… The Khwarezmid forces and Oghuz armies have each been expanding into Persia. Seljuks are falling before them in battle. Your wife's father, Sultan Toghrul, and the Seljuk Empire itself stand on the brink of defeat."

"Do not forget the Franks, calling themselves Crusaders, still besiege Acre. Sultan Saladin has appealed again for aid."

I can make sense of only about half of what is being said. We have heard that the Franks have renewed their assault on the Muslims of Jerusalem, but that is a drama so far away it might as well be another world. The Oghuz and the Khwarezmids, though, are twin menaces much closer to our hearts, wild people rapidly gnawing away at our Seljuk Empire—although they are yet parasangs north of Kirman, each occupied with defeating Sultan Toghrul and his emirs.

"We shall see to it that my father-in-law receives aid. My wife will have it no other way."

I recognize this voice immediately. The Malik.

Rounding the corner, I collide with a knot of men. Papers fly as my feet skip, my slipper slides, and I claw at the faience wall behind me for support. The Malik steadies me, his fingers curling around my shoulders. Behind him, his advisers' faces twist in disapproval. A pair of scribes scurry to gather the sheaves drifting down like snow.

A furious blush heats my cheeks. I step away from the Malik, my shoulders hot and cold where he touched them.

"Apologies," I mumble.

The scribes dart veiled glares at me.

"Are you searching for your sister, Shaherazade Khatun?" The Malik tucks a lock of black hair, jostled loose by our collision, into his jeweled turban. The impulse to tug it forth again, feel its cool silkiness slide against my palm, suffuses my fingers. I clench my hands tightly.

I drop my eyes. Nod.

Even nine years after his wedding, over eight years living alongside him in the Arg-e-Bam, and knowing him for each of my nineteen years, I still struggle to articulate myself in his presence. Before his majesty and kindness, I feel my veins blossom and hot blood dissolve my muscles and bones. I could be left for a formless heap at his feet.

He laughs fondly and I feel foolish. I wish I had turned the corner and careened into anyone else, or better yet: glided past the Malik, demurely inclining my head.

"Halt your search. You will not find her until she wants to be found." He gives me a knowing look. Dunya's reluctance to my lessons is infamous, a joke that apparently has risen to the Malik's ears. "But do me a favor and find Fataneh Khatun."

I nod, trying to recover the grace I have lost. Judging from the councillors' eyes, the effort is not well received. I am sure Baba will hear of this. Still, the Malik's eyes twinkle with gentle amusement.

"Your father told me part of a story you told him," the Malik calls as I retreat.

I whip around, my heart hammering.

He smiles. "I should like to know the ending, someday."

"I—I … I should find Fataneh Khatun."

How could Baba have told him? I duck and flee, and the drumbeat of my heart drowns all sound.

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Copyright © 2023 by Jamila Ahmed